Notes on the Mantelpiece
Jun. 2nd, 2012 07:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
juxtaposeTitle: "Notes on the Mantelpiece"
Author: JLT/juxtapose/graydorians
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John and Sherlock start writing notes to each other, and come to find that some truths are easier scrawled on a piece of paper than said aloud.
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
It starts with two simple words: get milk.
John Watson stands back with his arms folded across his chest, nodding in approval at his good work. "There's no chance in hell he's going to miss this," he says to the empty flat. The floorboards creak in agreement.
Obnoxiously taped onto Sherlock's favorite decoration--the skull that dominates the mantlepiece in the sitting room--is a scrap of lined paper which reads the command. And John will be damned if Sherlock ignores him this time.
One might think it more efficient to call or text a person a reminder. But when one's flatmate happens to be consulting detective and fantastically arrogant arse Sherlock Holmes, such methods do not always apply.
"I sent you a text," John will always complain, "I called you twice."
And Sherlock will roll his eyes and say, "My phone was all the way in my coat pocket when I was at the morgue, John. On the other side of the room. By the time I'd retrieved it and seen your messages, it was too late to do the shopping."
For someone who works with logic like a wizard with magic on a daily basis, Sherlock Holmes seems to express an overwhelming lack of common sense when it comes to practical things. Like shopping and cleaning and I-told-you-I'd-taken-the-later-shift-at-the-clinic-Sherlock-why-don't-you-pick-up-your-goddamn phone kinds of things.
John Watson is not stupid. He knows Sherlock has a way of selectively ignoring information. Well. John's having none of that now. He has to go to work, there is nothing in the fridge, and he's not going to Tesco to get it. Not this time.
So he's placed his little reminder where the man will have no means by which to ignore it. He'll see the note, and he won't be able to simply delete it or ignore it like he would a message on his phone. He'll have to physically walk over, snatch the paper off his precious pet skull, and throw it away, and that action alone will take enough effort to give John's message a home in a nice, warm spot in the great mind of Sherlock Holmes: Get milk. Get milk. Get milk.
John chuckles almost maniacally as he puts on his coat. This, he thinks, has got to work.
"Get milk. -J"
* * *
When John arrives back at 221B Baker Street at half nine that night, he expects to see Sherlock folded up in his chair eyeing him with annoyance. However, the flat is oddly quiet, and John peers around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary--until he notices his little note had been removed from the tiny skull above the fireplace.
Raising an eyebrow, John shuffles to the mantelpiece and notices a small piece of paper stuck to the back of the head. He grabs the paper and reads:
"John, really. Placing a piece of paper directly atop the frontal lobe? Obnoxious. I at least had the decency to attach my note near the parietal bones. Lestrade texted. I won't be home when you arrive. SH"
Shaking his head and smiling, John peers down at Sherlock's note amusedly for a little while longer. Typical. Completely ignoring what I had to say all because of where I placed the note on the skull's bloody face.
But, sure enough, there is milk in the refrigerator, and if John shoots a much-too-enthusiastic, triumphant fist into the air, no one's around to mock him.
* * *
It becomes a strangely necessary means of communication between John and Sherlock. Sure, they call and text each other, but occasionally if John knows he'll be busy a while and Sherlock's not around, or vice versa, it's simply more convenient to write a quick note on the way out the door for the other to find when he arrives home.
"Chinese tonight? Stopping by Mike's for a bit but I can pick it up on the way home. I assume you want the chow mein combination plate? -J
P.S. - I'll put my notes where I damn well please. I reckon the skull doesn't mind."
But over the course of a few weeks that turn into months, these little pieces of paper begin to evolve into more than mere reminders to pick up dry-cleaning or suggestions for next week's dinner. They become a bit more detailed, as if each man is willing to rush and scribble down what the other has missed while not in his presence. They become sentences-or-two that send each into fits of laughter among the quiet home, full of inside jokes from their daily lives or crime scenes they've perused, and give the two something to talk about when they're reunited.
"You're still asleep, you lazy git. I'm off to work, but when you wake up I think you should go meet Mrs. Hudson's new beau. He's got a mustache the size of Niagra-bloody-Falls and I'm wondering what you can deduce about him. -J"
"Two words: he's gay. Forget the size of his mustache, John, look at how it's groomed! Obvious. I was going to tell dear Mrs. Hudson just that, but I thought you might find it a bit not good to say so. -SH"
And sometimes, John will find he's got absolutely nothing to say that can't wait until he next sees Sherlock. So he writes little bits of nonsense just to drive him mad:
"The jam's gone...Why's the jam always gone? The jam of life spreads/over the stale bread/of everlasting anguish......... -J"
"That makes absolutely no sense, John. Your willingness to waste paper is appalling." -SH
"The first bit was a reference to...nevermind. Anyway, hint: I want more jam. Your turn to go to Tesco. -J
P.S. - Get those beetles out of the tea kettle, Sherlock, so help me God...
P.P.S. - Some more words to live by for your reading pleasure: 'It rains on mars for days on end when the wildflowers don't get their purple sweets.' Deduce that. You're welcome."
Soon, both to John and Sherlock's surprise, the latter begins to join in, leaving seemingly irrelevant one-liners to stir around in John's mind:
"I will subtract your numbers and trace your abnormal abnormalities. -SH"
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. That was actually quite good. Who knew you were a poet? Hang on...making copies and sending them to Mycroft and Lestrade. -J"
"Oh, do shut up, John. Unless you want to find more beetles in your tea kettle. -SH"
It becomes a part of their daily lives: notes on the mantelpiece, sent to and fro by the silent skull who watches their words come alive.
* * *
"Sherlock."
"Mm?"
"I've got to ask you something."
"If it's a dull or stupid question I won't answer."
John rolls his eyes, smirking. "It's about you, so I can't imagine you'll find it stupid."
"Oh. Ask me, then." Sherlock's voice is coated with indifference as usual. He peers through a microscope at the kitchen table. John sits across from him, munching on an apple.
"Ifs jist w'ndring whyyo--"
"For God's sake, John, I hate when you talk with your mouth full. Start again when you've completed the excruciatingly difficult task of using the muscles in your throat to swallow your food."
John fights back a chuckle, knowing full well how much he's irritating Sherlock. He knows it's childish, but no matter what age you are, occasionally it's fun to give your flatmate a taste of his own medicine, so to speak. He gulps down a piece of apple and says, "I said I was just wondering why you still write notes to me on the mantelpiece. I thought you'd have gotten tired of it by now."
At this, Sherlock's eyes flicker upward to meet John's. "How do you mean?"
"Well. You're bored easily and . . . I dunno. I thought you would have chastised me about your preference to text, and all that."
"I do prefer to text. However, as long as you continue to post notes on my skull, I will respond to them."
John chuckles. "Of course. God forbid you leave anything unanswered."
"Why? Would you prefer if I didn't reply?"
John raises his eyebrows in spite of himself. "No! No, I mean . . . it's rather fun, actually. I dunno." He shrugs. "I guess I look forward to it. Writing something, and then seeing what you've got to say about it later on." He averts the intensifying stare of his flatmate awkwardly, shuffling his shoes on the hardwood floor.
"Hmm." Sherlock stands up, stretches a little, and walks over to the pile of knick-knacks next to the refrigerator that John has been asking him to clean up for about six months now. He retrieves a notebook from the mess of papers and trinkets, saying, "I daresay I've occasionally wondered what made you do it in the first place. Start writing notes like that."
"Erm, maybe because you only answer my texts when you feel like it?" John mumbles sarcastically, his tone not unkind, "But, I mean, you know. Writing's more personal, too." He adds, jokingly, "As in, I personally want you to buy more bread."
Sherlock whirls around, having been in the middle of scribbling some equation or another. "Personal?"
John shrugs. "I mean, yeah. Didn't you ever get those little letters in grade school, like, 'Do you fancy me, check 'yes' or 'no'?"
About halfway through speaking, John realizes Sherlock probably had not gotten any letters of the sort (if Mycroft's various descriptions of Sherlock's childhood were any indication), and secondly, those were not the sort of notes he and Sherlock were writing to each other. Of course not . . .
He feels a blush creeping up onto his face as he quickly amends, "What I mean to say is, writing something down is more . . . direct, honest. With text and e-mail you can send mass messages, and all that. But if something's handwritten and given to you, you know that person has written it for you."
Throughout his rambling he notices Sherlock has been eyeing him very carefully in the analytic sort of way that means he's thinking hard--pursed lips, furrowed brow, tilted head. "So you're saying . . . if one wants to convey something personal to someone else, a handwritten message is best?"
"I'm saying it's just what people do, Sherlock. If there's something they don't want to say, or don't get to say in person, they write it down. It's why people have diaries and journals and--"
"Blogs?" Sherlock smirks.
"Shut up; my blog's different. Anyway, that's all I meant by it."
Sherlock stares at him for a moment more before stalking off, leaving John in the kitchen with a combination of confusion and bashfulness hovering around him.
* * *
Four days later, John comes home from work and immediately (and out of habit) glances at the skull on the mantelpiece. Sure enough, a piece of paper sits patiently by, this time stuck near the skull's left eye (John had joked the other day that it was the skull's "best side". He chuckles a little at the memory, wondering if Sherlock had pasted the note there on purpose).
If John is honest with himself, he recognizes the fact that coming home to these little notes have become a highlight in his daily routine. It isn't as if he and Sherlock spend a lot of time apart--Sherlock's always dragging him to one crime scene or another, or having him help with an experiment, and when none of that's on he's playing violin while John reads by the fire--but when they do, it's sort of nice to have this little piece of Sherlock around even when the man himself isn't.
John shakes his head a little, wondering where all those thoughts had come from. He's laughing a little to himself, until he reads the note that had been left for him:
"I love all that you are. -S"
John is a trained doctor, so he knows it is impossible for one's heart to skip too many beats before it starts becoming a serious medical issue, but he feels like his heart's jumping all over the place nonetheless.
He holds the note in shaking hands, wondering what to make of it. Sherlock's handwriting is steady, curving, flowing as usual, as if these six words on paper had been nothing at all for him to write.
And then John figures: This has got to be some kind of joke. The last thing I wrote to him was a poem about an indigo cactus named Steve. He's taking the piss. He's got to be.
So when Sherlock strolls through the door about twenty minutes later, John laughs a bit too loudly and all but yells, "Nice one, mate."
"Sorry?"
"The, uh. The note."
Sherlock frowns slightly, studying John's expression. "You said handwritten notes are efficient in expressing one's personal feelings. Naturally, I applied our conversation from a few days ago to my message. You find it amusing? Interesting."
John's smile falters, and then both men are standing across from each other in the silent living room, unsure of what to say. Sherlock steps forward, blue eyes glowing with understanding, and John knows he's deduced the living daylights out of him by this point: "Oh. You were laughing because you thought I was joking. In case you've not discerned this already, I wasn't."
John stares down at his shoes. Bile rises in his throat and his stomach clenches with guilt. He'd just been mocking Sherlock without even trying. And now John feels like a complete idiot.
His face feels hot; the room feels hot, too hot . . . John needs to leave, or he feels he might burst. He stumbles toward the door, muttering, "I've got to run." The last thing he sees is Sherlock's perplexed, intrigued expression bordered with something that John, if he didn't know any better, would pinpoint as sadness.
* * *
John spends hours wandering about the busy London nightlife, trying to clear his head. Sherlock's message rings loud in his ears; though his flatmate hadn't said the words aloud, they poked and prodded at John's thoughts in Sherlock's voice nonetheless.
I've mucked it all up, he thinks bitterly, He'll probably kick me out. And with good reason. I'll have to find somewhere else to go . . .
The realization crashes into his mind abruptly, and he stops in mid-stride on the sidewalk. It isn't so much leaving or starting over that makes a shudder rattle John's bones--it's being without Sherlock.
He's insufferable, impatient, annoying, self-centered, obnoxious, says the rational voice in his mind.
But something else, something stronger, reminds John that while Sherlock is all of those things, he's also bloody brilliant, and John's best friend, and, hell . . . John can't picture being without him. Not anymore.
No matter how long or how determinedly John's tried to fight it, the fact is this: Sherlock has irrevocably entwined his life with John's, and John can't afford that twine to be torn apart, for the tie to be severed.
"God, what do I say to him?" he thinks aloud, unaware of the passersby giving him strange looks as they push past.
You're amazing. You're brilliant. You've changed me and I don't ever want to go back to how I was before. I become better when you're with me. And I think I help make you better, too. We're our better selves together, and if you ever weren't here anymore, I wouldn'tfit. I wouldn't fit into whatever this life's given me, and I want to. I want to feel alive, and I do when I'm with you.
John sighs. All these thoughts are overwhelming, and he knows if he wants to make things right with Sherlock, he's got to keep things simple. Honest, personal, but simple . . .
With wide eyes, he realizes what he has to do, and he turns on his heel and jogs back to Baker Street.
* * *
"I love you, too. -J"
John gulps down at the words he's just written, hoping like hell it's enough. He places it on the mantelpiece and goes to make himself a cup of tea. Since he arrived home about ten minutes prior, Sherlock has not made an appearance, but the sounds of shuffling upstairs tell John he's still in the flat.
When he hears footsteps on the stairwell, John tries not to show his panic as he pours his tea, making sure he's facing away from the living room should Sherlock see him blushing. God, I'm an idiot. This was an awful idea. Bloody awful. I should just start packing my things now.
He strains to hear Sherlock's gliding steps into the living area, hears the silence of a pause, winces at the sound of the unfolding of paper . . .
John considers himself a calm, collected kind of bloke, but you wouldn't know it by the way his composure completely shatters as he spins round in a nervous twitch to see Sherlock, who appears lost in thought with John's note clutched in hand.
At the sound of John's skidding heels, Sherlock looks up. His eyes are soft.
There is a painfully long bout of silence then, until John says eloquently, "Erm."
Sherlock says nothing, but reaches for the nearby table, snatching up a pad and paper.
What the hell? John thinks, and watches as Sherlock begins to scrawl something or other on the notepad. He feels his palms sweating, feels his skin practically crawling with apprehension and his mind swirling with all the things he'd left unsaid. I want him to know. I want him to know all of it.
"Right." John takes a deep breath, the silence becoming too much for him to bear. "Listen, erm. That was . . . there's a lot more I wanted to say. More I could've said. But I thought that was a good place to start, and . . . " He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to be afraid of this anymore. Becuase I . . . I do, Sherlock. I do love you."
Sherlock again speaks no reply, but he's looking up at John, now, pen dangling loosely in his right hand. He's still holding John's note, too, clutching it so tightly that his knuckles seem a translucent, ghastly white. John's wondering if he'll need to buy any extra suitcases to pack up his things, when Sherlock holds up his most recent composition.
"Good. Don't forget the laundry. -S"
John bursts into laughter, which causes Sherlock to smile, too.
"I do need my shirts pressed, John."
"Git," John mumbles, reaching a hand around Sherlock's waist to pull him close. "Why don't we stick to actually talking for a while, yeah? Shake things up a bit?"
Sherlock grins a little wider. "I suppose we could. Although, might I suggest alternative activities . . . " He leans forward so his words brush up against John's ear. ". . . for which people use their mouths?"
"Wh--oh. Oh! Right! Yeah. I quite like that idea, actually."
"Of course you do; it's mine. I'm full of good id--"
John cuts him off with a kiss, his written declaration pressed between their bodies--words that both of them know they can finally speak aloud.
Author: JLT/juxtapose/graydorians
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John and Sherlock start writing notes to each other, and come to find that some truths are easier scrawled on a piece of paper than said aloud.
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
It starts with two simple words: get milk.
John Watson stands back with his arms folded across his chest, nodding in approval at his good work. "There's no chance in hell he's going to miss this," he says to the empty flat. The floorboards creak in agreement.
Obnoxiously taped onto Sherlock's favorite decoration--the skull that dominates the mantlepiece in the sitting room--is a scrap of lined paper which reads the command. And John will be damned if Sherlock ignores him this time.
One might think it more efficient to call or text a person a reminder. But when one's flatmate happens to be consulting detective and fantastically arrogant arse Sherlock Holmes, such methods do not always apply.
"I sent you a text," John will always complain, "I called you twice."
And Sherlock will roll his eyes and say, "My phone was all the way in my coat pocket when I was at the morgue, John. On the other side of the room. By the time I'd retrieved it and seen your messages, it was too late to do the shopping."
For someone who works with logic like a wizard with magic on a daily basis, Sherlock Holmes seems to express an overwhelming lack of common sense when it comes to practical things. Like shopping and cleaning and I-told-you-I'd-taken-the-later-shift-at-the-clinic-Sherlock-why-don't-you-pick-up-your-goddamn phone kinds of things.
John Watson is not stupid. He knows Sherlock has a way of selectively ignoring information. Well. John's having none of that now. He has to go to work, there is nothing in the fridge, and he's not going to Tesco to get it. Not this time.
So he's placed his little reminder where the man will have no means by which to ignore it. He'll see the note, and he won't be able to simply delete it or ignore it like he would a message on his phone. He'll have to physically walk over, snatch the paper off his precious pet skull, and throw it away, and that action alone will take enough effort to give John's message a home in a nice, warm spot in the great mind of Sherlock Holmes: Get milk. Get milk. Get milk.
John chuckles almost maniacally as he puts on his coat. This, he thinks, has got to work.
"Get milk. -J"
* * *
When John arrives back at 221B Baker Street at half nine that night, he expects to see Sherlock folded up in his chair eyeing him with annoyance. However, the flat is oddly quiet, and John peers around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary--until he notices his little note had been removed from the tiny skull above the fireplace.
Raising an eyebrow, John shuffles to the mantelpiece and notices a small piece of paper stuck to the back of the head. He grabs the paper and reads:
"John, really. Placing a piece of paper directly atop the frontal lobe? Obnoxious. I at least had the decency to attach my note near the parietal bones. Lestrade texted. I won't be home when you arrive. SH"
Shaking his head and smiling, John peers down at Sherlock's note amusedly for a little while longer. Typical. Completely ignoring what I had to say all because of where I placed the note on the skull's bloody face.
But, sure enough, there is milk in the refrigerator, and if John shoots a much-too-enthusiastic, triumphant fist into the air, no one's around to mock him.
* * *
It becomes a strangely necessary means of communication between John and Sherlock. Sure, they call and text each other, but occasionally if John knows he'll be busy a while and Sherlock's not around, or vice versa, it's simply more convenient to write a quick note on the way out the door for the other to find when he arrives home.
"Chinese tonight? Stopping by Mike's for a bit but I can pick it up on the way home. I assume you want the chow mein combination plate? -J
P.S. - I'll put my notes where I damn well please. I reckon the skull doesn't mind."
But over the course of a few weeks that turn into months, these little pieces of paper begin to evolve into more than mere reminders to pick up dry-cleaning or suggestions for next week's dinner. They become a bit more detailed, as if each man is willing to rush and scribble down what the other has missed while not in his presence. They become sentences-or-two that send each into fits of laughter among the quiet home, full of inside jokes from their daily lives or crime scenes they've perused, and give the two something to talk about when they're reunited.
"You're still asleep, you lazy git. I'm off to work, but when you wake up I think you should go meet Mrs. Hudson's new beau. He's got a mustache the size of Niagra-bloody-Falls and I'm wondering what you can deduce about him. -J"
"Two words: he's gay. Forget the size of his mustache, John, look at how it's groomed! Obvious. I was going to tell dear Mrs. Hudson just that, but I thought you might find it a bit not good to say so. -SH"
And sometimes, John will find he's got absolutely nothing to say that can't wait until he next sees Sherlock. So he writes little bits of nonsense just to drive him mad:
"The jam's gone...Why's the jam always gone? The jam of life spreads/over the stale bread/of everlasting anguish......... -J"
"That makes absolutely no sense, John. Your willingness to waste paper is appalling." -SH
"The first bit was a reference to...nevermind. Anyway, hint: I want more jam. Your turn to go to Tesco. -J
P.S. - Get those beetles out of the tea kettle, Sherlock, so help me God...
P.P.S. - Some more words to live by for your reading pleasure: 'It rains on mars for days on end when the wildflowers don't get their purple sweets.' Deduce that. You're welcome."
Soon, both to John and Sherlock's surprise, the latter begins to join in, leaving seemingly irrelevant one-liners to stir around in John's mind:
"I will subtract your numbers and trace your abnormal abnormalities. -SH"
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. That was actually quite good. Who knew you were a poet? Hang on...making copies and sending them to Mycroft and Lestrade. -J"
"Oh, do shut up, John. Unless you want to find more beetles in your tea kettle. -SH"
It becomes a part of their daily lives: notes on the mantelpiece, sent to and fro by the silent skull who watches their words come alive.
* * *
"Sherlock."
"Mm?"
"I've got to ask you something."
"If it's a dull or stupid question I won't answer."
John rolls his eyes, smirking. "It's about you, so I can't imagine you'll find it stupid."
"Oh. Ask me, then." Sherlock's voice is coated with indifference as usual. He peers through a microscope at the kitchen table. John sits across from him, munching on an apple.
"Ifs jist w'ndring whyyo--"
"For God's sake, John, I hate when you talk with your mouth full. Start again when you've completed the excruciatingly difficult task of using the muscles in your throat to swallow your food."
John fights back a chuckle, knowing full well how much he's irritating Sherlock. He knows it's childish, but no matter what age you are, occasionally it's fun to give your flatmate a taste of his own medicine, so to speak. He gulps down a piece of apple and says, "I said I was just wondering why you still write notes to me on the mantelpiece. I thought you'd have gotten tired of it by now."
At this, Sherlock's eyes flicker upward to meet John's. "How do you mean?"
"Well. You're bored easily and . . . I dunno. I thought you would have chastised me about your preference to text, and all that."
"I do prefer to text. However, as long as you continue to post notes on my skull, I will respond to them."
John chuckles. "Of course. God forbid you leave anything unanswered."
"Why? Would you prefer if I didn't reply?"
John raises his eyebrows in spite of himself. "No! No, I mean . . . it's rather fun, actually. I dunno." He shrugs. "I guess I look forward to it. Writing something, and then seeing what you've got to say about it later on." He averts the intensifying stare of his flatmate awkwardly, shuffling his shoes on the hardwood floor.
"Hmm." Sherlock stands up, stretches a little, and walks over to the pile of knick-knacks next to the refrigerator that John has been asking him to clean up for about six months now. He retrieves a notebook from the mess of papers and trinkets, saying, "I daresay I've occasionally wondered what made you do it in the first place. Start writing notes like that."
"Erm, maybe because you only answer my texts when you feel like it?" John mumbles sarcastically, his tone not unkind, "But, I mean, you know. Writing's more personal, too." He adds, jokingly, "As in, I personally want you to buy more bread."
Sherlock whirls around, having been in the middle of scribbling some equation or another. "Personal?"
John shrugs. "I mean, yeah. Didn't you ever get those little letters in grade school, like, 'Do you fancy me, check 'yes' or 'no'?"
About halfway through speaking, John realizes Sherlock probably had not gotten any letters of the sort (if Mycroft's various descriptions of Sherlock's childhood were any indication), and secondly, those were not the sort of notes he and Sherlock were writing to each other. Of course not . . .
He feels a blush creeping up onto his face as he quickly amends, "What I mean to say is, writing something down is more . . . direct, honest. With text and e-mail you can send mass messages, and all that. But if something's handwritten and given to you, you know that person has written it for you."
Throughout his rambling he notices Sherlock has been eyeing him very carefully in the analytic sort of way that means he's thinking hard--pursed lips, furrowed brow, tilted head. "So you're saying . . . if one wants to convey something personal to someone else, a handwritten message is best?"
"I'm saying it's just what people do, Sherlock. If there's something they don't want to say, or don't get to say in person, they write it down. It's why people have diaries and journals and--"
"Blogs?" Sherlock smirks.
"Shut up; my blog's different. Anyway, that's all I meant by it."
Sherlock stares at him for a moment more before stalking off, leaving John in the kitchen with a combination of confusion and bashfulness hovering around him.
* * *
Four days later, John comes home from work and immediately (and out of habit) glances at the skull on the mantelpiece. Sure enough, a piece of paper sits patiently by, this time stuck near the skull's left eye (John had joked the other day that it was the skull's "best side". He chuckles a little at the memory, wondering if Sherlock had pasted the note there on purpose).
If John is honest with himself, he recognizes the fact that coming home to these little notes have become a highlight in his daily routine. It isn't as if he and Sherlock spend a lot of time apart--Sherlock's always dragging him to one crime scene or another, or having him help with an experiment, and when none of that's on he's playing violin while John reads by the fire--but when they do, it's sort of nice to have this little piece of Sherlock around even when the man himself isn't.
John shakes his head a little, wondering where all those thoughts had come from. He's laughing a little to himself, until he reads the note that had been left for him:
"I love all that you are. -S"
John is a trained doctor, so he knows it is impossible for one's heart to skip too many beats before it starts becoming a serious medical issue, but he feels like his heart's jumping all over the place nonetheless.
He holds the note in shaking hands, wondering what to make of it. Sherlock's handwriting is steady, curving, flowing as usual, as if these six words on paper had been nothing at all for him to write.
And then John figures: This has got to be some kind of joke. The last thing I wrote to him was a poem about an indigo cactus named Steve. He's taking the piss. He's got to be.
So when Sherlock strolls through the door about twenty minutes later, John laughs a bit too loudly and all but yells, "Nice one, mate."
"Sorry?"
"The, uh. The note."
Sherlock frowns slightly, studying John's expression. "You said handwritten notes are efficient in expressing one's personal feelings. Naturally, I applied our conversation from a few days ago to my message. You find it amusing? Interesting."
John's smile falters, and then both men are standing across from each other in the silent living room, unsure of what to say. Sherlock steps forward, blue eyes glowing with understanding, and John knows he's deduced the living daylights out of him by this point: "Oh. You were laughing because you thought I was joking. In case you've not discerned this already, I wasn't."
John stares down at his shoes. Bile rises in his throat and his stomach clenches with guilt. He'd just been mocking Sherlock without even trying. And now John feels like a complete idiot.
His face feels hot; the room feels hot, too hot . . . John needs to leave, or he feels he might burst. He stumbles toward the door, muttering, "I've got to run." The last thing he sees is Sherlock's perplexed, intrigued expression bordered with something that John, if he didn't know any better, would pinpoint as sadness.
* * *
John spends hours wandering about the busy London nightlife, trying to clear his head. Sherlock's message rings loud in his ears; though his flatmate hadn't said the words aloud, they poked and prodded at John's thoughts in Sherlock's voice nonetheless.
I've mucked it all up, he thinks bitterly, He'll probably kick me out. And with good reason. I'll have to find somewhere else to go . . .
The realization crashes into his mind abruptly, and he stops in mid-stride on the sidewalk. It isn't so much leaving or starting over that makes a shudder rattle John's bones--it's being without Sherlock.
He's insufferable, impatient, annoying, self-centered, obnoxious, says the rational voice in his mind.
But something else, something stronger, reminds John that while Sherlock is all of those things, he's also bloody brilliant, and John's best friend, and, hell . . . John can't picture being without him. Not anymore.
No matter how long or how determinedly John's tried to fight it, the fact is this: Sherlock has irrevocably entwined his life with John's, and John can't afford that twine to be torn apart, for the tie to be severed.
"God, what do I say to him?" he thinks aloud, unaware of the passersby giving him strange looks as they push past.
You're amazing. You're brilliant. You've changed me and I don't ever want to go back to how I was before. I become better when you're with me. And I think I help make you better, too. We're our better selves together, and if you ever weren't here anymore, I wouldn'tfit. I wouldn't fit into whatever this life's given me, and I want to. I want to feel alive, and I do when I'm with you.
John sighs. All these thoughts are overwhelming, and he knows if he wants to make things right with Sherlock, he's got to keep things simple. Honest, personal, but simple . . .
With wide eyes, he realizes what he has to do, and he turns on his heel and jogs back to Baker Street.
* * *
"I love you, too. -J"
John gulps down at the words he's just written, hoping like hell it's enough. He places it on the mantelpiece and goes to make himself a cup of tea. Since he arrived home about ten minutes prior, Sherlock has not made an appearance, but the sounds of shuffling upstairs tell John he's still in the flat.
When he hears footsteps on the stairwell, John tries not to show his panic as he pours his tea, making sure he's facing away from the living room should Sherlock see him blushing. God, I'm an idiot. This was an awful idea. Bloody awful. I should just start packing my things now.
He strains to hear Sherlock's gliding steps into the living area, hears the silence of a pause, winces at the sound of the unfolding of paper . . .
John considers himself a calm, collected kind of bloke, but you wouldn't know it by the way his composure completely shatters as he spins round in a nervous twitch to see Sherlock, who appears lost in thought with John's note clutched in hand.
At the sound of John's skidding heels, Sherlock looks up. His eyes are soft.
There is a painfully long bout of silence then, until John says eloquently, "Erm."
Sherlock says nothing, but reaches for the nearby table, snatching up a pad and paper.
What the hell? John thinks, and watches as Sherlock begins to scrawl something or other on the notepad. He feels his palms sweating, feels his skin practically crawling with apprehension and his mind swirling with all the things he'd left unsaid. I want him to know. I want him to know all of it.
"Right." John takes a deep breath, the silence becoming too much for him to bear. "Listen, erm. That was . . . there's a lot more I wanted to say. More I could've said. But I thought that was a good place to start, and . . . " He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to be afraid of this anymore. Becuase I . . . I do, Sherlock. I do love you."
Sherlock again speaks no reply, but he's looking up at John, now, pen dangling loosely in his right hand. He's still holding John's note, too, clutching it so tightly that his knuckles seem a translucent, ghastly white. John's wondering if he'll need to buy any extra suitcases to pack up his things, when Sherlock holds up his most recent composition.
"Good. Don't forget the laundry. -S"
John bursts into laughter, which causes Sherlock to smile, too.
"I do need my shirts pressed, John."
"Git," John mumbles, reaching a hand around Sherlock's waist to pull him close. "Why don't we stick to actually talking for a while, yeah? Shake things up a bit?"
Sherlock grins a little wider. "I suppose we could. Although, might I suggest alternative activities . . . " He leans forward so his words brush up against John's ear. ". . . for which people use their mouths?"
"Wh--oh. Oh! Right! Yeah. I quite like that idea, actually."
"Of course you do; it's mine. I'm full of good id--"
John cuts him off with a kiss, his written declaration pressed between their bodies--words that both of them know they can finally speak aloud.
